


Because I Missed You

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody goes to Zambia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because I Missed You

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on this picute: http://miista.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/farhad-moshiri-im-so-fucking-happy.jpg  
> and this prompt: http://angelofthursday.co.vu/post/75782856407/sherlock-returning-to-baker-street-and-finding

“I’d start in Zambia. Seems like his type of hiding place.”

“You don’t think he’s coming back to London?” Mycroft retorts, one immaculate brow quirking.

“Mycroft, don’t insult the man. He’ll be returning, but not yet He’s a criminal mastermind; he lives to entertain himself. Do you really think he’s going to miss the opportunity to toy with us a bit?”

The elder Holmes narrows his eyes, and John suddenly feels very left out of the silent conversation. With unspoken concession, Mycroft takes out and unlocks his phone. “Zambia it is. My driver will take you home.”

Walking through long corridors out of Mycroft’s government-conspiracy-secret-lair, John Watson is amazed at Sherlock’s ability to remember the path after three years. Some things you can’t delete, he supposes. There are things John can’t forget, like seeing Moriarty in that exact suit three years ago.

“You don’t honestly think he’s in Zambia, do you?”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder, and rolls his eyes in that affectionately condescending way of his. “Of course not.”

“So where is he, then?”

“Doesn’t matter where his grave is.” He stops, and looks the shorter man in the eyes. “I watched that man shoot himself through the roof of his mouth, got a bit of brain on my coat. He’s dead, John.”

“Right. Why did you tell Mycroft he’s in an obscure south African country?”

A lift of his eyebrows, a contagious grin. “I don’t want to be sent to Zambia, either.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Take-out, I assume?”

“I thought we’d go out tonight. Celebrate my un-banishment.” Sherlock says with a smile. It’s forced. Those are his most genuine.

“Right.” John responds. “Let me get my coat.”

He rounds the corner. “...Sherlock?” he calls, a bit frantically.

The detective trots in, and stops dead, eyes fixed on John, then where his own gaze is stuck. Knives. The wall is covered in knives- hunting knives, pocket knives, kitchen knives, throwing knives- (Sherlock is the only one to notice the fillet knife pinning a rose to the wall perpendicular) all stabbed into perfect straight and curling lines. All spelling out, Because I missed you.

“So...” John begins. “Not Zambia, then?”


End file.
